


Shifting Affections

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crack, Gen, winning over the pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19803001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Inspired by a prompt from imagineyourotp: Imagine person A of your OTP realizing they have to win over person B’s pet.





	Shifting Affections

Aziraphale avoided getting into Crowley’s car for a good thirty years after the demon acquired it. This, he now suspects, is a mistake, because Crowley was extremely careful with his car for about the first decade, and has spent every possible moment since then trying to push it beyond the limits of the sound barrier.

So it’s with some trepidation that he approaches the Bentley, which is in its usual spot outside the bookshop, in advance of a short trip to Margate to make holidaymakers’ holidays better and/or worse. Crowley is insisting that he’ll give Aziraphale a lift, rather than letting him miracle his way there as usual, and Aziraphale has given up on arguing with him about it. While Crowley works on unfolding himself from the bookshop’s comfiest chair - a task that has been known to take him anything up to an hour to accomplish - Aziraphale is outside, regarding the Bentley with, as has been mentioned, some trepidation.

“Er. Hello.” Crowley talks about the car as if it is a living thing; sentient, and capable of having emotions. He talks about it as though it’s a  _ pet _ , and Aziraphale knows that getting on the wrong side of Crowley’s pet would be a terrible start to whatever new level of Arrangement they now have, one that involves the sharing of lifts. “Hello, Bentley. Is that your name? It’s what he calls you, anyway, when he isn’t just calling you  _ car. _ ”

The Bentley is silent, gleaming in the sunlight; Aziraphale’s not sure what else he expected.

“I’m going to be your passenger today, and I hope you won’t mind if I’m a little nervous. I don’t usually travel by motorcar. I certainly don’t often travel at the speeds you’re capable of, you clever thing.”

The Bentley continues to sparkle in the sunlight, as if to remind Aziraphale that it is beautiful as well as clever and fast.

“Yes, beautiful  _ and  _ clever; a remarkable machine. I just wanted to ask you to be gentle with me, and to keep taking care of Crowley the way you have been. I’d be terribly sorry to see the two of you wrapped around a lamppost, you see.”

“Angel?” Crowley has, it seems, unfolded himself from the chair in the record time of only four minutes and twenty-six seconds. Aziraphale hopes that’s not a reflection of his general speed today. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hm? Oh. Nobody. Thinking out loud.” He winks at the Bentley when Crowley’s not looking, and then allows the demon to hold the door open for him.

“Don’t want you slamming it by accident, it’s a sensitive machine,” Crowley mutters, looking embarrassed for some reason, and then hurls himself into the driver’s seat with a resounding slam.

They survive the drive to Margate and back - though the existing landspeed record very nearly doesn’t - and afterwards, Aziraphale swears that he will never let Crowley drive him anywhere again.

* * *

Crowley is very rarely alone in Aziraphale’s bookshop, but the angel has been called to Heaven for something and, since Crowley was rather enjoying their discussion of classical music vs heavy metal, he elects to stay so they can continue it as soon as the angel returns.

The bookshop has been a part of their lives - his and Aziraphale’s - for nearly two hundred years, now, and it has only just occurred to Crowley to wonder whether it  _ likes  _ him. Oh, he knows it’s just a bookshop, and bookshops don’t generally have strong feelings about their occupants one way or another, but this particular bookshop has contained the Angel of the Eastern Gate for nearly two centuries and he suspects that some of the angel’s more caring qualities may have rubbed off on it. Certainly, the temperature in the shop has shifted since Aziraphale’s departure, to a slightly more Crowley-comfortable level, and he could swear a bottle of something has been edged out from a shelf onto Aziraphale’s desk, where a bottle of something previously wasn’t.

Crowley’s not going to  _ ask  _ the shop if it likes him, of course. That would be stupid. But he pats a bookshelf affectionately as he goes to pick up the bottle, and the plumbing gurgles, for all the world as if the building is purring.

* * *

Aziraphale lets himself into Crowley’s flat, after the apocalypse that never was, and takes a deep breath. He’s nervous, of course, about the new look and everything that goes with it, and he hopes he doesn’t have to keep up the pretence for long. He’s not  _ capable _ of acting like a demon for long stretches, although Crowley seems to find that funny when he mentions it. He’s waiting outside, Crowley, looking very much like an angel with no home to go to. And Aziraphale is in here, looking like a demon who wants to make sure the coast is clear before he brings his… er, well, his co-conspirator, he supposes, into the place. He’s here to check the flat hasn’t been invaded by demons - though Crowley assures him that’s only happened once - and, if he’s honest, to clear up the Holy Water Crowley has warned him might still be pooled by the door. He doesn’t want Crowley stepping in it and discorporating… well, he’s not sure who’d be discorporated in that case, but he doesn’t want it happening to either of them.

Once he’s dealt with that, of course - a tiny miracle, hardly takes him a second - he has to face the other inhabitants of the flat. Because, as it turns out, Crowley has a  _ lot  _ of houseplants.

“Er, hello. He is coming, you know. We’re just, er, in the wrong bodies at the moment. Don’t tell anyone, will you?” The houseplants seem to glare at him, and he sighs; if the houseplants don’t like him, this is going to be an uncomfortable night for all of them. “I’m sorry for the subterfuge. I’m trying to keep him safe, you see. He, er, he means rather a lot to me. And he’s trying to keep me safe, too, for some reason. So it’s all right. I haven’t broken in. He’ll be right in, honestly.”

The plants seem to draw themselves up a little taller, cold and unforgiving, and Aziraphale realises that of course Crowley’s bonded with these, too. He gathers his courage and approaches one, a particularly dramatic palm-type thing.   
“Goodness, you’re beautiful, aren’t you? I can see you’ve been working very hard on this growth. And you-” He turns to another, reaching out to stroke a leaf which trembles, very slightly, in the instant before his finger lands. “Such a wonderful green tone. Why, you all must be the most beautiful houseplants in London - in England, probably, though I haven’t had the chance to check-”

“Aziraphale. What are you doing?” He turns to find Crowley in the doorway, wild-eyed and looking rather as though he’d got worried and run up to see what had happened to the angel.

“Oh - I cleaned the Holy Water up, and we definitely won’t have a problem there, by the way, no burns - and then I got talking to your rather wonderful plants.”

“Stop being nice to them.”

“But they really are fantastic specimens, Crowley, it’s obvious that you take wonderful care of them-”

“Stop being  _ nice _ ! How am I supposed to keep them in line if they remember being told they’re  _ beautiful _ , for- for Somebody’s sake-”

“But they  _ are  _ beautiful,” Aziraphale tells him, making the most of Crowley’s features to give him the world’s smuggest grin. His own face, piloted by Crowley, looks absolutely furious.

“Stop being nice to my plants, or- or-”

“If you want me to stop,” Aziraphale tells him lightly, “you will have to stop me.” 

Then he drops into Crowley’s throne - which he really must remember to tease him about later - and watches the demon in his body rage around the flat, threatening plants left, right and centre. They stand tall, and only tremble a little when he picks one up by the pot and aggressively checks it for spots. He doesn’t find any, of course, and has to put the pot back.

“You’ve ruined my plants, angel- You! You’re a pathetic excuse for a plant, don’t get all excited just because the stupid  _ angel  _ thinks you’re pretty. Angels think everything is pretty-”

Aziraphale gets comfortable. It seems this little tantrum isn’t going to be over any time soon, and if he’s not very much mistaken, he has finally won the allegiance of something Crowley cares for.


End file.
